


Of Cops and Robbers

by Letmeringabell



Category: Mortal Kombat (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Slow Burn, snarky and sassy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-04 04:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21191720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letmeringabell/pseuds/Letmeringabell
Summary: When he left his life behind as a cop, he would've never thought that his past would come to save him. Yet, why does he keep coming back to her apartment after she's saved him?





	Of Cops and Robbers

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this was supposed to be a headcanon, but after some thought, and a full length later, it became a one-shot. It's very SFW, but once I get into the smut-writing feels, maybe then I'll edit in the smut. But nevertheless, enjoy! And to all Erron Black stans, I've got one for y'all don't worry

She remembers the scene vividly; The rows of recruits standing at ease, hands firmly behind their back and legs and legs inches apart. All of them focused their attention to their Captain on stage, listening and awaiting further commands from their superior officer.

owork, their steadfast commitment to six months of rigorous and physically demanding training exercises. From the 120 recruits, bright-eyed and enthusiastic, had been shortlisted to 60, and eventually dwindled down to the cream of the crop, 30 recruits that stood rigidly in their spot with determination in their tired eyes.

She could attest to the rough and tough of the training—Sleepless nights, survival instincts on constant high alert, and the sheer aggressiveness of their sparring sessions that would leave her out of breath, sometimes. While she had been lackluster in the physicality of the training, she had excelled in the other areas; Strategic planning, lock-picking, wire rerouting, you name it.

“All of you will have to bear the burden of responsibility on your shoulders-,” Lieutenant Kabal’s voice cut through the inner monologue in her head.

She had been absorbed into the Police Force and placed under the Tactical Division, the same division that Lieutenant was leading. Her eyes surreptitiously appraised her superior; His hair had been tied into a low bun, while the sides of his head had been neatly shaved. His physique is hidden beneath the layers of his police uniform, but anyone can see that he’s packing a lot of muscle and strength in his form.

Informality had always been his thing; The rolled-up sleeves, the wise-cracks in his speech, and the lopsided smile.

It was that killer-watt smile that earned him his fanbase amongst the female recruits. However, there is a strict no fraternization policy among the ranks, and he was no exception to the rule. Still didn’t stop him from engaging with some of them, and encouraging their flirtatious behavior by shamelessly flirting back. All in harmless fun, he would say.

Many of the women in her program had swooned over him, and she would be lying if she said she hadn’t. After all, how could you deny Captain Hunk and his rough, yet velvety voice?

-

_How many times have I looked up to you?_

-

It’s been 5 years since then, and she had always wondered what had happened to the Captain. There had been whispers, rumors, about his disappearance, or death depending on the source. Some say he was involved in a freak accident, skin and lungs burned to a crisp fighting some creature straight out of Alice in Wonderland. Others say he ran away, fed up with chasing criminals and boring paperwork.

The wild-child in her had become world-weary. The things she had seen, and the things she’s done – The pull of a trigger, the man shot in the back alley, and the blood soiling her hands—Had been a visceral reminder of the _vilevile _deeds that come with enforcing justice in the name of law and order.

So, she would understand why he would want out of this work. It’s dirty, and hardly rewarding.

And you know what else was hardly rewarding? Getting groceries in the middle of the night, alone. She was tired, her back is aching, her legs are shuffling back and forth instead of taking individual steps, and goddamn it, she was **hungry**. She considered postmate-ing her food, but the cheapskate in her didn’t want to pay the $5 delivery fee.

She rubbed the back of her neck in frustration, it couldn’t get any worse right?

_Clack_

“Who’s there?” She called out, the pistol in her hand, “I have a gun, and I won’t hesitate to shoot.”

The grip on her gun tightened even further when she heard more rustles from the dark shadows in the corner, and her finger was poised at the trigger, ready to fire should the unknown assailant turn hostile. She wouldn’t really fire at them, probably fire a few warning shots to scare them off, and if the person really wanted to try their luck, well, should also be prepared to get a gun thrown at their face.

“Don’t shoot,” A voice replied, the weariness weighing itself in the slur of his words. A masked man stumbled out of the alley and into the lit road, tripping over trash bags and propping himself against the wall support. His hand had wrapped itself around his side, and she could see him struggling to keep the blood from flowing out of his wound. She lowered her gun, and rushed to him hurriedly.

“Sir, I’ll call an ambulance-“

“Don’t bother. Just get me to a pharmacy, and I’ll be alright.”

“But, Sir, you’re bleeding!” She had exclaimed in disbelief. There is no way he’ll survive a trip to the pharmacy, not with all his blood gushing out.

“Just, leave-“

“SIR!” is all she could shout before she caught him, her groceries thrown haphazardly against the gravel. He was knocked out cold, dead weight in her arms.

She set him down on her lap, her hand firm against his wound, desperately looking around and calling for anyone, just anyone to help her out. But it was no use, no sane person is going to be out and about at 2 AM on a weekday, they’ve got work in the morning.

She looked down at her skirt – A fit and flare blue skirt, hardly worn for more than 3 times.

_‘A girl’s gotta do, what a girl’s gotta do.’_

-

He wakes up to a pressure in his head, a stubborn ache that won’t go away, even when he tried burying himself deeper in this source of warmth. He vaguely remembers last nights events; The darkened alleyway, the pain in his side, and a woman.

A woman?

He rolls over and lies flat on his back, finally opening his eyes and wincing when the sun hits his eyes. He reaches for his face, and relief floods his breathless sigh, thankful that this woman, this _random stranger _had been nice enough to leave his mask on during his sleep. The mask had been a way of self-preservation, a literal life support for the constant rattling of death’s breath in his lungs.

When he finally gets up from the bed, he notices a toothbrush and a set of clothes neatly folded on the drawer beside it. There had been a note, and in neat handwriting, _feel free to use the clothes and toothbrush. There’s also towels in the bathroom._

He leaves the room, and looks around the place; The motif of white and dark blue is spread in the walls, and the furniture. The living room and the dining hall are separate, yet they share a space with each other through accessibility. There are flowers everywhere as well—The windowsill, the door, the curtains. It is almost like Spring is in constant bloom here.

He hears the front door and immediately turns, the woman from before emerged, surprise barely concealed on the lift of her eyebrows.

“Hope you like Chinese food,” She starts, and brings out plates from the kitchen cabinet to set the table, “Also, you’ve had me worried there. Thought you’d never wake up.”

“How long was I out?”

“3 days. I tried waking you up, but you never budged.”

3 days?! No wonder he felt so well-rested. “I’m sorry for that. I’ll get out of your business ASAP.”

She waves him off, and hands a plate of rice to him, “It’s no big deal. You seemed like you needed help anyway. There’s pumpkin, chicken-mushroom and vegetable stir fry. Take as much as you want.”

He tries not to pig out, and be rude in front of a gracious host, but when you haven’t eaten in 3 days, he can’t help but lump huge portions of the side dishes on his plate. When he takes his first bite, it feels like the Heavens has blessed him, because it is punch full of flavor – The amount of soy sauce was just enough, that it doesn’t overpower the dish with its saltiness. The light drizzling of sesame oil had been a welcome tang, providing another layer of depth to the dish.

“Glad to see you like it,” The woman notes with light humor in her tone.

“Anything’s good when you’re hungry,” He answers in between bites, “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“My name’s Diana.”

“And what do ya’ do for a living?”

“I’m a cop,” She answers rather coolly, fishing another piece of chicken onto her plate.

When he hears that, he wants to moan, groan and curse the bad luck he’s having. Not only did he get hurt, he got picked up by some random lady, that lady also happens to be a cop! He grew wary, wonders if she’s seen his well-decorated dossier, and if she’s lulling him into a false sense of security with lunch. After all, his hook swords were nowhere to be seen.

“I don’t think I caught your name,” She asks, and he considers lying to her, considers giving her a fake name and fake background story about his life in Southeast Asia. Then again, she’s a cop. One simple background check, and she would have him killed the next time they meet. _Then again, _by the time she finds out, he’ll be out of sight and out of mind.

“The name’s Kabal,” He risks it all by telling her, after all, she’s just a regular cop right? Wrong. His gut feeling churns for the worst, because the utensils in her hand are slammed onto the table, her mouth slacks ever so slightly, and her eyes are suspiciously darting back and forth between him and an object in the background. He turns, curious to see what she had been focusing on.

It was a photo frame on the table; There was her, 3 other men, and _him. _

He didn’t just have bad luck, frankly, it was shit. Not only was she a cop, she was a cop he trained, and he had taken her in his team! In what universe, and what God did he piss off, to align himself in ridiculous circumstances that were only seen in movies, **actually **happen to him in real life?!

“Lieutenant?” She whispers, the disbelief is spread all across the board.

-

An explanation was due—His disappearance, his re-appearance, and his current life update.

He told her everything; In his last mission, he had encountered a furry beast with four arms – sounding like an animal straight out of a comic book—and he had somehow miraculously, but barely survived the attack, lungs burned to a crisp. A man by the name of Kano took him in, and offered to pay for all of his medical equipment and bills, if Kabal joined the Black Dragon. He had accepted the offer, knowing that his current state of being would only leave him jobless if he went back.

So, he left. Never telling anyone where he went, and he admitted to her, that seeing a tombstone with his name on it had been chilling.

No one knew where he was, until now—Until she had found him bleeding out on the street that fateful night.

“What do I do now?” She throws the question at him. His life of crime had been brought to attention, and her duty as an officer is calling her to apprehend him. Yet, her moral conscience is beckoning her to think twice, to be merciful than just. His circumstances had dictated him to act accordingly, and if she were in that position, could she really lie to herself and say that she would’ve rather died?

“You can arrest me now, or,” He provides an alternative, “You can do nothing.”

He provides her two simple choices, like there’s nothing morally grey and challenging about the situation.

So, what does she do? Nothing. She is tired (lies) and doesn’t want to think too much, doesn’t want to debate between her morality and her responsibility. She lets him go one fine Sunday Morning, bids him goodbye and _see you soon. _The last part she had added as a formality, what was he gonna do, actually come back?

And to her surprise, he actually did after a few weeks and this time, he has brought with him her favourite dessert: Chocolate pavlova with whipped cream and strawberries on top.

“Call it a thank you, for patching me up last time,” He tells her and casually throws himself on her sofa.

The days, weeks, months that comes after, has helped build a predictable routine with each other; He would visit her, they would eat together, talk and bitch about their co-workers, watch whatever’s on Netflix, fall asleep on the sofa-bed, he would leave for a job in the morning, only to return and repeat their process over and over again.

This schedule has helped build a comfortable camaraderie with each other. Although his visits would be sporadic, and sometimes, cut short from either Kabal’s work obligations, or her own. However, what stayed the same was the certainty that he would come, and the strength of that certainty, had both reassured and scared her at the same time.

Because he’s weaseled his way into her life, and into her living spaces – His clothes are starting to pile up in her drawers, his crude drawings are on the fridge, and his favourite food recipes is imprinted in her memory, a habit from cooking food for the both of them because Lord knows, he has zero cooking skills.

“What are we watching tonight?” He asks, flipping through the list of movies on Netflix.

“What about Ninja Mime 4?” She answers, and she can tell that he is cringing significantly under the mask.

“Your Movie tastes are shit, Diana.”

“Woah, what bills are you paying around here to insult my favourite B-list movie like this?” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” She forks another bite of the pavlova, and _relishes _in the dessert, “So shut up, and enjoy this trashy B-list movie with me.”

-

But even their friendship hasn’t always been smooth-sailing.

“I can’t help but hate you sometimes. I blame you for not paying more attention to me. For letting me fade into the background of your team.”

Her accusation bites him like the frost of winter, and stills his hand mid-motion. There is history behind her words—His leadership of his team, his treatment of her, and it buries him with _deepdeep _shame when he remembers.

He remembers her vividly; The vivacious young woman, with promise of great potential. She had been handpicked and specially assigned to his team when she graduated from the Police Academy, her and a few other men from the same batch. He remembers being very impressed by her ability to work—Whatever tasks he gave her, she executed them quickly and efficiently.

Since she never really needed his help, his attention had been curried onto the other male members of his team. All of them had been immature and inexperienced, lacking her expert sleight of hand and quick wit in the field. All of them needed more than demonstrations, while all she needed were theories and very few instructions before she would implement them in practice.

Maybe, his lackadaisical approach in guiding her had seemed like he was ignoring her, that he had left her to struggle on her own and take it all astride, while he had so readily provided help to the others. How hurt she must have felt, when she needed a mentor just as badly as the boys did.

When she had been under Stryker, she flourished. He would her stories of her progress from Stryker, and he would nod and grin through it all, never giving her achievements a single thought.

And now sitting here, helping her replace her bandages and salve the wounds on her back, sees the scars blemish the smooth expanse of skin – Souvenirs of her past parlays with criminals- that he realizes that she deserved so much more than he could ever give her. It’s really no wonder why she ran to Stryker in the first place.

The room is silent, resentment hangs heavily between them, like a noose above their heads. Her back is against him, hiding the true extent of her anger and dissatisfaction. He wants to apologize, to explain why he had been so uncaring, so indifferent. He has all the reasons, but knows that they all pale against the hard truth, and would only sound like flimsy excuses to her ears.

“I’m sorry,” is all he manages to choke out, honest and gentle.

She doesn’t answer back, but merely leans back against his warmth. He accepts this gesture, knows that this is her forgiving him and because they are them, it is enough.

-

_“What do you think they’re doing?”_

_She whips her head towards the kitchen, and sees her fellow teammates and Captain huddled in the break room. All of them stand a distance from the table, a singular mug placed on said table, but there are tea bags all around the mug and on the floor._

_She watches as each of them crush the teabag in their hands, place the teabag against their head, darts it back and forth before throwing it, and groaning aloud when the teabag misses the mug._

-

_‘Old habits do die hard,’ _she muses when she catches Kabal in the kitchen, placing the teabag against his head, darting it back and forth before throwing it straight into the mug. At least, his aim has improved since then.

“Here he is, Kabal. He needs to get one tea bag into the cup, to become the World Darts Champion. Can he do it?” She announces, her voice taking the cadence of a professional commentator. She sees the smirk tilt his lips, but he doesn’t turn to look at her, doesn’t break his focus because he’s got his eyes on the prize.

When he throws the teabag, and it lands inside the mug, “One-tea!” he proudly declares his point of the day.

She joins him in the kitchen, and places their lunch atop the dining table, “Do you still do this at the Black Dragon?”

“I do actually. I was the champion at throwing tea-bags into a mug, until a certain cowboy came into town,” He ends his sentence with a punctuated grumble, and she chuckles at the image of him groaning and howling each time he’s lost. Knowing Kabal, he must’ve also bet something on the line, because he was a serial gambler back then too, but it wasn’t money he was gambling— It was his workload, and more often than not, he would find himself on the losing end.

Some things don’t change, do they?

But this time, her fondness for him grows, and it makes her nervous, like butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She **refuses **to see the truth, because to acknowledge is to admit to herself, the depth of her attraction towards him. That loud, uncouth, obnoxious maniac who carelessly treks mud into her home because he forgets to take his shoes off sometimes, and misplaces his hook swords around her apartment and blames her when he can’t find it.

“But before lunch, have some cake,” He hands her a plate, of what it seems to be like chocolate cake.

“Are we celebrating something today?” She asks, suspicious and confused.

“Don’t you remember, it’s your birthday today.”

Her head is thrown further in confusion, her birthday? “My birthday is not for another four years.”

“Not anymore it isn’t,” He answers her with a grin in his voice. She looks at the calendar hanging beside the fridge wall, sees that he’s violently crossed out March 1st and replaced it with February 29th, and in big, bold letters, he’s written, _Diana’s Birthday!_

With a happy heart, she takes a bite of the cake. It is rich with Belgian chocolate, the icing layers in between are dense with cream and banana that it makes her head spin with joy, and thank the Lord he’s actually gotten the oven settings right, because it is hardly dry and moist in texture.

“It’s that good, huh? I made it myself,” He admits to her, the swell of pride echoing in his voice.

Of course, he made it. She would know, because the overpowering saltiness that had flooded her taste buds when she had bit into the cake had been undeniable, and no amount of cream can cover the lack of sugar. He must’ve mistaken the sugar for salt, because she forgot to stock sugar in the pantry, and he must’ve used the salt during his cake-baking instead.

Despite the mismatch of ingredients, it isn’t his gesture of cake-making that makes her heart gently twist in her chest—It’s the fact that he’s made it a point to celebrate her birthday, and when he says _not anymore, _it is sounds like a promise to celebrate her birthday each year, to replace more March 1st’s with February 29th.

So, she smiles through her teeth, smiles at the funny, loyal, thoughtful man who brings her favourite desserts every time he comes over because he knows she likes them.

“It’s perfect.”

-

He wonders, when exactly did he start falling for her? When exactly did his feelings for her cross the boundaries of kinship to romance?

He won’t lie, recognized his attraction towards her the first time in her apartment. At the time, he brushed it off as a passing fancy—One would fall for anyone, if that person had been an attractive lady tending to your wounds.

Yet, when he had come back the first time, he wanted to thank her for her efforts and leave it at that. But he finds himself coming back for more, enjoying not only her company and cooking, but enjoying the fact that he has a partner to deal with his constant mood swings and listening to his conversation.

A great cook, a patient listener, with a rather sarcastic tongue: All the qualities he’s always wanted in a life partner, and all of these qualities she already had from the start. How natural had it been to fall in love with her, once he actually got to know her as herself, not as the tired, noble police officer ready to bite off a man’s head at a snarky remark.

Then there’s her sudden bouts of flirting, the bravado that emerges when she teases him, only to confuse him when it vanishes the moment he flirts back. He wants to know what they’ve become, but he is too afraid to properly ask. The disfiguration that’s left him ugly and unattractive has caused his insecurities to mount over time, and it doesn’t help that Kano has used his face to scare a few clients and ruffians away.

Thus, bravery and courage elude him, makes him avoid looking her in the eye and _really _asking her. He needs to be happy with what they have, because he can’t be fucking it all up by _wanting _a definition. He doesn’t want to lose his only semblance of home: her.

But as time goes by, he’s starting to become selfish; He is greedy for her attention, wants to keep it for himself and is willing to risk it all for her affection.

-

“I love you,” He confesses to her, and he immediately regrets the words as soon as it comes out, because the look of surprise on her face makes him doubt his decision. There is nothing romantic about his confession, no candlelight dinner nor picnic under the stars. He doesn’t want grandiose; He wants her to fully accept him as he is.

And it starts, with him taking off the mask and showing her the face he’s been hiding for the 2 years he’s known her.

He is sitting down on the sofa, hands fumbling around the mask while his palms are nervous and trembling in her presence. She soothes the trembling in his hands and catches him off guard when she holds his hands in place, her voice is soft, “Are you sure this is really what you want?”

Her act of comfort, thoughtfulness reassures him that, it is the right thing to do. He lifts the mask away from his face, revealing to her the full damage of Kintaro’s flames that had almost destroyed him all those years ago. He looks at her straight in the eyes, seeking brevity and levity in the unknown.

“Can I touch you?” She asks, and he nods his assent. Her hands don’t jump at the chance of touching him. Instead, they take special care in approaching his skin, making sure that he isn’t any point, uncomfortable with her. Her hands sweep over his skin in strange patterns and circles, and it takes him a while to realize, that she is trying to trace back the injuries she’s helped him patch up – The gunshot wound on his left collarbone, the stabbing incident on the left side of his torso, and the slash of a knife across his chest.

Although her eyes are intense in their scrutinization, he can’t tell what she feels about his appearance. Whether she felt secretly disgusted or fascinated, she had kept her thoughts to herself and levelled a great poker face. His words are echoing in his mind, _no one can love you, _and her silence adds a cruel twist of the knife in his pride, because he would rather be told the truth straight up, than having to wait on her words only for her to eventually reject him.

But what he wants more than anything, is for her to prove him wrong. To silence the demons in his head once and for all.

When her hands finally rest under his jaw, the look in her eyes had taken a tender note, and there had been a ghost of a smile on her lips, “You’ve got anti-hero written all over your face. Actually, I just mean Deadpool.”

And he laughs, loud and in relief, because she’s such a dork, but she’s his dork, and he wouldn’t trade any of her character references for the world.

“So, what do you say, would you like to be the Vanessa to my Wade Wilson but with less red jumpsuits and more pizza?”

She rests her forehead against his, her eyes are closed with a peaceful glow on her face, “I would love to have more pizza and less red jumpsuits with you, too.”


End file.
